“Shit.” A frown knits his dark brows into a V. “You really don’t remember, huh?”
I try.
Really, truly try to dredge up something. But I’m not even sure if I know how to remember.
What the hell is going on here? It’s like someone took a pressure washer full of bleach to my whole brain.
Mr. Sea Glass just stares. Somehow that makes my cheeks heat.
Rolling the back of my head against the softness of the pillow, I try relaxing again. Searching for another flicker of a memory. One that doesn’t involve me getting sick in this bed.
Nada.
It’s like my life started here.
“No,” I finally sigh out, holding my breath at the cold panicky shiver rolling through me. “I just can’t remember anything.”
Crud. I shouldn’t have said that.
I still don’t have the foggiest idea who my mysterious caretaker is. Good looks could be deceptive. Stranger danger should be my new motto. This is a strange place.
Isn’t it?
The fact that I can’t tell makes this even more worrisome.
Mr. Sea Glass reaches over and pats my hand. “Don’t freak. You’re alive and breathing. That means there’s a good chance the rest will come back sooner or later. You, uh...you had an accident.”
He looks away when he says the last part. Why?
“What kind of accident?” I whisper slowly, my free hand balling into a nervous little fist.
I’m scared. For all I know, this guy had something to do with it. If he wants to set me up for another untimely 'accident,' I wouldn't stand a prayer. Not against a human wall like him.
“A boating accident,” he says, his gaze snapping back to me. “The ship went down and you're lucky you didn’t go with it. Barely managed to get you back here in one piece.”
Searching his eyes, I find a flicker of truth. I hope.
For now, it’s enough. So I look past him to a set of French doors framed with long, flowing, translucent green sheers. They’re hanging open, and beyond them is a concrete lanai with a white brick wall. Past that, there’s a faint hint of a sandy beach, the ocean, all murmuring waves and soft breezes.
My heart thuds. I couldn’t forget that scenery if I tried.
Nothing says breathtaking like the Oahu landscape. I love Hawaii. Maybe that’s why just looking out there feels like I’m home.
But how do I know?
This is bonkers. The things I know, the things I don’t.
Panic creeps back into my system, pinching my chest.
“When?” I ask him, clearing my throat. “When did I have this boating accident?”
“Just yesterday. Pretty late in the evening. Hasn’t even been a full day since.”
I remember boats. Sort of. I like them, I think, getting out among the ocean air and the shimmering waves and slow passing beauty.
Yeah, there’s something familiar there. Something in the back of my mind, pulling at my memory like a brick on a yo-yo string, but...it’s like having a word stuck on the tip of your tongue and not being able to verbalize it. Imagine that in your whole brain.
This is so flipping weird.
I pull my eyes off the water and look at Mr. Sea Glass again as he looks past me, taking in the same outdoor beauty. My first impressions weren’t wrong.
He’s good-looking. Not young and not old. Mid to late thirties, maybe?
He’s a whole lot of muscle and big bones stuffed in a beige button-down shirt with brown palm trees printed across it. The color suits him. Shows off his tan, his buff edge, his broad shoulders. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, deep black lines in the shape of an eagle holding some kind of fork.
How do I know him?
I stare harder, examining his face. If he’d meant that sleeping beauty remark literally and woke me up with a kiss...well, I don’t think I’d have any reason to protest.
He’s got the Captain McHottie thing going on in spades. His face looks downright princely, set with a strong, square chin, wide-set eyes—yes, that unforgettable azure blue shade again—and topped with perfectly arched dark-brown eyebrows.
His hair is dark brown, cropped, but not too short. His nose is straight, a bit on the wide side, but it fits his face. There are fine, tiny wrinkles around his eyes. Laugh lines. Or is it from stress?
He’s not laughing now, but the fine lines are prominent because he’s looking at me some kinda way.
Is it kindness? Empathy? Or is it just a why me? burdened look?
I can’t tell to save my life.
I don’t know if I know him, either.
Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes, trying to clear my head so I can think. Remember.
No dice.
“Something’s wrong. I just can’t remember...anything.” I whimper, squeezing my shut eyes tighter against the sting of tears. “What’s wrong with me?”
His hand settles on top of the back of my hand. Warmer this time, stronger, his fingers snare mine like a thick, calloused shield. “Think you’re trying too hard. Just relax, woman. You took a big damn blow to the head, and it must’ve rattled something loose. Your shit’s not gone. It’s just not together.”
Lovely. Mr. Sea Glass must’ve used up all his happy points on those Adonis good looks. He’s sure got a way with words.
A Neanderthal’s way. But is he wrong about the relax part?
My shoulders tense. Considering his advice, I try easing my shoulders, arms, and neck, then turn my attention on breathing. Slow, deep breaths, holding it, letting it out slowly. I do a slow count, thankful I can remember my numbers.
One.
Two.
Three.
“That’s it,” he says. “Breathe.”
I nod and keep on breathing, squeezing his hand as I keep counting.
Four.
Five.
It’s helping, little by little. The tightness in my chest, the panic, slowly subsides.
Hissing out a long breath, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. A big tan paddle blade fan swoops through the air, slowly whooshing around.
The room is tranquil. The walls are a pale olive green with white wood running along the edges, including the doors, and the floors are a light natural wood. The king-sized bed in the center of the room I’m in is decked out in white sheets, a white blanket, and a folded pale-green duvet draped over the end.
There’s a big TV mounted on one wall above a dresser. Then two doors, one on each side of the dresser, both open. One goes to a bathroom, and the other juts off to a hall. On the other side of the room, there’s a set of huge double doors. Both closed. A closet, I’d guess.
Ugh.
How do I know what a closet is, a TV, a bathroom...but not who I am?
He mentioned an accident. Am I dead? Is this some sort of odd heaven?
Nah, there’s no pain in heaven. And definitely no barfing.
I turn to him. “Who are you?”
For a second, he just looks at me. Then he flashes that smile, gives a one-shoulder shrug, and leans closer.
“Flint. Who the hell you think I look like? Elvis?”
“Flint?” I whisper, shaking my head. Doesn’t ring a bell in the slightest. But I do remember the King.
He nods firmly.
Flint. Flint who?
I say the name again. Silently. Let it enter my mind, wait for it to make some neurons fire.
It’s not my lucky day, though.